Poems (Henley)/Under a stagnant sky
XIIITo James McNeill Whistler
Under a stagnant sky,Gloom out of gloom uncoiling into gloom,The River, jaded and forlorn,Welters and wanders wearily—wretchedly—on;Yet in and out among the ribsOf the old skeleton bridge, as in the pilesOf some dead lake-built city, full of skulls,Worm-worn, rat-riddled, mouldy with memories,Lingers to babble to a broken tune(Once, O, the unvoiced music of my heart!)So melancholy a soliloquyIt sounds as it might tellThe secret of the unending grief-in-grain,The terror of Time and Change and Death,That wastes this floating, transitory world.
What of the incantationThat forced the huddled shapes on yonder shore To take and wear the nightLike a material majesty?That touched the shafts of wavering fireAbout this miserable welter and wash—(River, O River of Journeys, River of Dreams!)—Into long, shining signals from the panesOf an enchanted pleasure-house,Where life and life might live life lost in lifeFor ever and evermore?
O Death! O Change! O Time!Without you, O, the insufferable eyesOf these poor Might-Have-Beens,These fatuous, ineffectual Yesterdays!